


EBEORIETEMETHHPITI

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6173257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ted Cruz has a visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	EBEORIETEMETHHPITI

Kansas called it for him early on. He gave a speech, perfunctory and stilted, slurring a little on top of two days of no sleep and an unwise amount of coffee. They went for it anyway, roaring, roaring. If he concentrated on the roar he could forget Virginia. He could forget South Carolina.

He couldn't concentrate.

The Need. Ted capitalized it. Always had. Ever since the boy and the girl on the beach west of Santa Barbara. He capitalized it for that made it stark and explicable. The Need, a function of his particular illness. Not illness, he wouldn't use that word. His particular blessing. He thanked God for it. God gave man the gift of hunger and man had invented agriculture to feed himself and then built glittering cities to hold the crops. God gave man the gift of Need and when the Need was filled the blessing ran gold.  He looked down to shuffle his notes and caught himself in the mirror-shine of the oak podium. He hadn't aged since 1957. Had in fact, since the late nineties, dropped some years from his face.

The Need came but rarely and it was terrible as a hurricane when it rose. The Need pulsed in him through the speech. The Need pushed him through the press gauntlet. More primaries to call, more hours to stay up, more speeches to make, one at least for Louisiana which he was sure to get. To hell with it. They could rerun the speech from earlier tonight. He could escape.

The hotel was the best in Couer d'Alene, which was not saying much. The chain probably had set rules for its decor but Midwestern tack oozed through anyways. A cowboy hat hung above the bar. Outdated Bonanza papering in the elevator. A framed map of America, done in imitation of nineteenth-century style, set on the wall over the end table. Ted touched his fingers to it. The other need, still so new, not so ritualized, throbbed through him. A pulsing, visual memory: driving by the White House and seeing the Secret Service posted like gargoyles at strategic points down the block. 

The two thirsts combined within him, beautiful and terrible as a bannered army. His reflection in the thin glass had yearning marked all over the eyes. Someone would notice. Tonight, then. Tonight. A swollen, outrageous kind of anticipation filled him. It had been years.

He had a security detail now, but for safety reasons he was listed as Mr. Gillian Laval in this hotel, and they would not mind if he said, in coy tones, I need a walk to clear my head. He had an unassuming, regular, jes'-folks face, which he would shade with the old Coke bottle glasses he kept in his shaving kit. It would have to be the gun tonight. It would have to be quick and from a distance. He had a crinkled scrap of paper upon which he'd written coded expoundings of his dearest philosophies but he had touched it one too many times and he would have to rewrite it with latex gloves on if he wanted to send it in. He would do that when he came back, he decided, with all the joy of writing wedding invitations. The bride that was America walking with shaky but steady steps towards him. Her head may still be turned towards New York but he would gently take her chin in hand and force her eyes upon his. The Need throbbed holy and good and he decided it was God requesting a sacrifice. God was not mocked. He would do as he was bidden, and be rewarded. 

He could not yet turn away from the map, though. His practiced eye catalogued the states he needed (Needed) before the convention. According to elections law, California's Republican primary won't be til June seventh. Ted contemplated. Perhaps he could swing a visit. Santa Barbara calling. He cracked open the end table, where he kept his best gun, and touched its shining metal. He hummed, first a flat and nonsense tune, then a real song, and finally he let his lips part, the words coming out thin and breathy.  _Tonight there will be no morning star / Tonight, tonight, I'll see my love tonight / And for us, stars will stop where they are..._

A soft sound at the door. Rattle of the knob. Ted remembered faintly that he'd ordered room service to bring up his dinner at eleven o'clock. The clock over the television said it was 10:48. He'd eat for an alibi and then slip out into a night teeming with possibility.

He went to the door.

The force pushing him back into the room was redolent of the scent of graves, of parchment, of Beltway corridors. Ted overbalanced and landed on his behind, hands back. The door clicked, locking, and Ted tried to get to his feet but was stopped by a booted foot stamped between his legs. He looked up and could not believe.

"No," he whispered.

"Yes," said Alexander Hamilton. Some grave dirt on his cuffs. A sprig of moss behind his ear. Inkstained fingers, goatee, a smile showing a hint of fang. "Hello, Rafael."

Ted's vision blurred. Blood pounded in his ears. When the sensation of faintness passed there was still a Founding Father standing above him, an ironic brow raised. He had a pocket copy of the Constitution in his suit jacket. He took it out every night and read a section. This could not be happening to him.

"You just won Kansas, didn't you? Congratulations." The smile expanded and it was more of a hint of tooth now. " _And_ the CPAC straw poll! You know what they say - Immigrants! We get the job done!"

Ted scrabbled up. The end table, the end table. He wrestled the gun from underneath the Gideon Bible, rolled over on his back. Aimed.

"Do it," Hamilton said. He seemed not at all moved. He adjusted his cuffs. "Do it. Don't throw away your shot, Rafael. History has its eyes on you."

Hot tears, unbidden, sprang to his eyes. His hands shook.

"I wrote about the Constitution and defended it well." Hamilton caught the edge of the pocket Constitution peeking out of his pocket and snickered. "As did you, didn't you. Wouldn't this be a fine moment in your campaign, Rafael - or should I say  _el asesino del zodiaco _\- "

Ted's hand froze around the gun. Hamilton laughed. "Wouldn't it be fine for you to slake your lust on a Founding Father, when you said you were mine! Shoot me down!" He spread his arms. "Kill me! Overwhelm them with honesty! Don't let me live after I so insult you! Protect your legacy!"

Ted dropped the gun. Ted heaved. Hamilton, unbothered, knelt to pick it up off the floor. He tapped Ted's knee with it and stood up, passing it hand to hand. "These modern things are so _heavy_."

"What do you want?" Ted whispered. He could not bring himself off the floor. Could not wipe at his streaming eyes. The tears dripped down his chin. 

"Funnily enough, I'm not here to pick at the specifics of your misbegotten policies. It's been two hundred years, too much has changed, I should really read more before I give you my true opinion - though I'm sure, given that you're losing to..." Hamilton waved the gun, making a face. "I'm not here for you."

Ted swallowed his nausea, took a deep breath. "Then why are you here?"

"For the thirty-seven," Hamilton said. He pointed the gun at Ted's chest. "There's more than thirty-seven now, isn't there?"

Bloodthrob in his ears again. 

Hamilton frowned slightly. Click of the safety sliding back. "Answer."

"Yes," he whispered, and then, when Hamilton levered the gun at his head, "yes,  _yes_ , there's more, there has to be more than forty-five, fifty, I think it's fifty-one now, I think it's fifty-one - "

The gun withdrew. Safety back on. Hamilton holstered it awkwardly in his belt and crossed his arms. "I suppose going west to plot overthrow isn't a choice for a DC murderer anymore. Eh? No?" He snorted, and then pointed a finger. Ted's eyes crossed looking at it. 

"Stop," Hamilton said softly. "No more, Cruz. There are enough innocents slaughtered by politics already, aren't there."

Ted could only bite his lip, nod once.

Hamilton's tone dangerous. " _Aren't_ _there._ "

"Yes," Ted bleated. 

Hamilton kept his finger pointed for a moment longer, and then he dropped his arms and gave Ted a sweet smile. "If you stop, this is the last you'll hear from me. If you don't..."

The gun rang when he tapped it. Ted's shoulders jumped. Hamilton laughed, and patted him on the knee, and turned to go.

"Stay in the race," he called over his shoulder. " _Constitutionally_ , you never gonna be president, not now, but you're a good buffer. And the Constitution's a living document, isn't it. Maybe things will change by 2020. Huh?"

He laughed. The door clicked open. The door clicked shut. Ted Cruz tried to get up and found he could not. He collapsed on the plush carpet, breathing heavily. Tears mingled with snot tracked down his face. He had, at some point, urinated on himself. The Need still throbbed but it was as a pale nothing when brought up to his terror.

His phone buzzed, buzzed in his pocket. With shaking fingers he took it out. Trump had won Louisiana.

**Author's Note:**

> did u know that ted cruz likes showtunes...[because he does...](https://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/compost/wp/2016/02/02/ted-cruz-relaxes-by-singing-show-tunes-actually-but-which-ones/)
> 
> i am literally not sorry for this


End file.
